The Hunting of Hill House
by PippinStrange
Summary: "Silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone." It's time for the ghosts of Hill House to be alone no longer, as Dean and Sam Winchester are hired for an investigation; but drawn to the horrors of the red room. Will it be another easy monster hunt? Or will it turn into a deadly tragedy that will claim another Crain sibling?
1. Lay Steadily

**Dear Readers,**

 **All credit for the amazing title goes to my beta, Crystal. She's QueenofCrystallopia here on fan fiction net. She's been slaying the game and I am so lucky to have her reading my fic when she's working on so many of her own. Show her some love when you get a chance!**

 **this is a supernatural story about Sam and Dean, but it is set at Hill House from the Netflix show The Haunting of Hill House and the book of the same title by Shirley Jackson. While I hope to reflect the brotherly relationship and the humor between the Winchester brothers as you see on the show, this is primarily in the horror genre. I do hope to make it utterly terrifying, so a bit of forewarning if you scare easily.**

 **Shivers and hugs,**

 **Pip**

* * *

 **...**

 **Chapter One - Lay Steadily**

 **...**

* * *

 **Hill House - Then**

* * *

Hill House watched the shadows of twilight lengthen, and a sigh escaped from the front door. Heavy and built with an iron latch, more befitting a castle than a mansion even as large as this; it was not so easily opened. The wood must scrape the unkept stone entry. The latch must be cleaned, because it had rusted so long ago. The door could not be opened from the outside, unless one had the key.

From the inside, the hand of a corpse took up the latch. Fingers shriveled like worms, the palm bloated. Skin pale, flecks of gray.

The metal ground against metal, and the bolt lifted, a tentative squeak of movement. Up, and over. The door crept open, the wood groaning with a laborious pain of stiff, ancient memories. Memories whisked away by a faint breeze, blowing a bit of dust into the house.

A tendril of dust flew deeper within, and the breeze rattled some of the dead vines climbing the forgotten stairs. Someone hummed in the atrium behind the stairs, the room filled floor to ceiling with stone figures in tormented, arrested movement, and jungle plants - long dead.

Hill House was calling now, but with only the wind to answer. The old carpet at each stair apex let loose a puff of dust, as if invisible footsteps walked up.

Turning at the bannister, a handprint was left on the railing.

The upstairs hallway stretched forward, long and neat. Dark green wallpaper bordered by old wood, grains blood red in the falling evening light. Some of the doors were sensibly shut. Some open, yawning dark.

Only one was cracked with a sliver of gold light peering through, thin as a knife. The room on the west side of the house, the last to see the sun before it dropped heavily, a casket lid dropping over a hot summer night.

The crack went a bit wider, and the air throbbed. The walls grumbled, even a picture hung long ago tapped too violently and fell to the floor with a ear-splitting crash, a twinkle of glass spraying across a rug.

Stomachs growl - and dragons roar - but Hill House waits.

Waits, watches. Anticipates beating hearts with saliva dripping down fowl mouths, like beasts, predators.

The house felt the clock turn to ten p.m., the clock wound each evening by a dead man with a mustache, hands that smelled of oil and rot winding at the cogs.

 _Tick, tock._

Time to play.

* * *

 **Sam & Dean - Now**

* * *

A reflection of scrubby, thick woodlands reflected in the shining black of the Impala, door opening wide before the car had even fully parked. Dean Winchester killed the engine as his brother was already slamming the passenger door.

Sam Winchester stood at attention, mouth agape, eyes up. Up, and up, till he could see the topmost turret.

A mansion. With a _turret._ His eyes followed the cornerstones of the roofline, to each window visible from this side, by a low garden wall, parked on the gravel between fenced woodlands and an overhanging carriage entrance.

A luminous white face, framed with hair drenched in darkness, stared through the third story window.

"Hey," Sam said softly, not tearing his eyes from it, but giving his chin a swift jerk to point Dean in the right direction. "Look at that."

Dean wasn't looking; Dean was grumbling. Dean was struggling with a jacket and a wrapper falling off of his lap, and he slammed the driver's door. "What?" he asked, irritably. "Look at what?"

"Third story, second from the right."

Dean _hmphed._ "I got nuthin."

"There's a woman standing there," Sam said. "I guess the only question is _which_ ghost is it? There's supposed to be dozens in there."

"Let's hope it's one of the hot ones," Dean smirked. "Did that guy call you at all?"

Sam blinked, and the face was gone. "What?"

"Did that _guy_ call _you_ again?"

He shrugged and checked his phone again. "No."

"He's late, then," Dean glared at the trees, briefly. "He said _noon,_ right?"

"Yup," Sam stuck his hands absently into his jacket pockets. "Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more."

"Doubt it," Dean mumbled.

"Silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone." Sam recited, and looked at Dean's incredulous expression. "What?"

"What the hell are you saying?"

"It's from the book."

"What _book?"_

"Steven Crain's book. The Haunting of Hill House. One of the five children raised here?" Sam blinked. "You didn't listen to me at all, before, did you?"

"You said that it was the site of a famous haunting tabloid fiasco."

"And the eldest haunted sibling wrote a book."

"You read the whole effing book?"

Sam jolted one shoulder. "I guess?"

"You're such a nerd."

"Hang on," Sam exclaimed, "You said _you_ were going to research. I assumed you looked at the book."

"Even better," Dean smirked. "I used the _internet._ Found pictures of those tabloid covers, too. Didn't paint a flatterin' picture of _Mister_ Crain, that's for sure."

"But that's not the full story."

"Sam, let me put it to you this way," Dean popped the trunk, withdrew a lever-action rifle with salt bullets, and cranked the lever with a satisfying _ker-chuk._ "We don't need the whole story. We're just here to make sure it _ends."_

* * *

...

* * *

 _Please consider leaving a review with your thoughts! This is my first fic for Supernatural, AND for the Haunting of Hill House. I am a huge fan of the book and I read it over and over. While I hope to remain faithful to Shirley Jackson's vision and style, this is set in Hill House, crossed over with the Supernatural verse. Let me know what you think!_


	2. The Job

**Dear Readers,**

 **Thank you so much for your reviews! I am excited about where this is going.**

 **\- Pip**

* * *

 **...**

 **Chapter Two - The Job**

 **...**

* * *

 **The Market - Then**

* * *

...

Sam felt the presence long before he saw anyone. A fleeting shadow, ducking behind the shelves in the market. An elder gentleman, thin and wiry, with a full head of silver, curly hair and a generous beard. Behind his glasses, the eyes were dark and piercing. He wasn't dressed like one would imagine for a stalker. He wore a gray tweed suit, a bit old fashioned, but tailored nicely. His briefcase was a mild brown, gripped in white knuckles bespeckled with age spots.

Sam rolled his eyes and ducked as much as he could. He was taller than the shelves in the go-mart, which made it difficult. Finally he made the choice to slip out the back door, into the alley, where he waited, pressed against the wall, his breathing growing shallow.

The door opened after a moment's pause. The old man listened to the alleyway, nothing but a dumpster and a few stacked pallets sat in respectful silence. So he shrugged his shoulders and stepped outside.

Sam cleared his throat.

Startled, the old man gasped and nearly fell backwards, stumbling into the alleyway and bracing himself with his free hand on the edge of the dumpster.

"Christ," he said, "You startled me."

"Who are you?" Sam demanded. "Why are you following me?"

The man straightened, clearly not used to being in any position of vulnerability. "Are… are you Sam Winchester?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Doctor Montague."

"Okay, so, who's that?"

"I'm Dr. Montague. I'm a… psychologist. I've been looking for you."

"What do you want?"

"I need your help with something," Dr. Montague said. "I think. I'm… not sure."

"You're not sure you need my help?" Sam repeated.

The doctor avoided this answer. "Do you know Nell Crain?"

Sam tilted his head. "No. Should I?"

"She… was a patient of mine."

"Was?"

"She's dead."

Sam swallowed convulsively. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"She killed herself, but…" Dr. Montague pinched his nose, removed his glasses, and shut his eyes. "Her brother called, said she killed herself. Offered to pay off any leftover bills for my time."

Sam felt something crawling down his shoulder, as if someone walked two fingers down his sleeve. He shrugged a little, brushing at his jacket. There was nothing.

"Okay?" he said uncertainly. "Look, I'm not sure how you know who I am, but…"

"Nell Crain mentioned you by name. It took me awhile to find you."

"Miss Crain mentioned me?"

"She said that she once sought your help for a… a haunting."

Sam's jawline twitched ever so slightly.

"She said you specialised in helping others track down the source of their personal hauntings, sometimes destroying the things that made their lives so… so…"

"Haunted?"

"Chaotic, miserable…" Dr. Montague sighed. "I don't believe in the supernatural myself, but it does concern me - only as it pertains to my patients."

Sam looked uncomfortable.

"But I haven't been able to shake what her brother said…"

"And what's that?"

"She killed herself in Hill House."

Sam nearly chuckled, but bit back his laughter. "Nell Crain died in…" he paused. "Nell Crain, like the book the Haunting of Hill House by Steven Crain?"

"One and the same."

"I've heard of the book about the most haunted house in America," Sam said doubtfully, shaking his head. "It seemed like just a lot of… tabloid gossip. Hocus pocus."

"That's what I believed as well," Dr. Montague replied. "Exceptionally harmful to her mental health, you can imagine."

Sam could imagine better than most. "So - during one of your sessions - she mentioned me?"

"That's right, I've… I've got my notes here," Dr. Montague dropped his briefcase to the ground, clicked it open. Sam held out his hands to stop him, telling him not to bother, but he was already flipping through a notebook. "Here it is," he said, folding the spiral notebook in half and handed it up to Sam.

Sam hesitated before taking it from him.

* * *

 _Distracted by the rain at the window today, she keeps looking_

 _-Does the rain bother you?_

 _No, it's the tapping on the window. Tap, tap, tap._

 _You don't like the sound of tapping?_

 _She says: it's her brother. Her brother hates the sound of tapping. Tap, tap, tap. Like a cane hitting the floor. When she hears it, she feels irritated on his behalf._

 _"Tap tap tap" - she has said this 3x now_

 _(eye contact breaking consistently to rub at her neck)._

 _I ask if her neck is bothering her_

 _She says not at all._

 _Why do you keep rubbing it?_

 _She says it's an anxious mannerism she has developed to give her hands something to do, I joke that she's trying to do my job. This makes her laugh, but when she laughs, she sits up and uses better posture. She stops rubbing her neck, but makes a conscious decision not to. Tangles her hands into long sweater sleeves instead._

* * *

"This is all very interesting," Sam said confusedly. "Your handwriting is better than most."

"Thank you. Please keep reading to the following page."

Sam gave the doctor a look. Dean must be wondering where he is by now - it doesn't take that long to walk ten feet from their motel room to a nearby go-mart and purchase food and beer.

"Please," repeated Dr. Montague, kindly. Sam flipped the page.

* * *

 _Says she had a nightmare about a manifestation she calls The Bent-Neck Lady. (see notes from January 17 session). After the nightmare she went to a psychic named Pamela Barnes. Pamela Barnes gave her a number to call; said Sam Winchester was a person who could help stop this manifestation._

 _She quoted PB: "I know you came here to ask if your future will still be haunted by this thing. You want to know if it stops. If there is a day to look forward to when it's all over. I can't tell you that, honey. The best thing to do for a ghost like this is call in a professional."_

 _I asked if she called Sam Winchester_

 _She said yes, they spoke briefly on the phone and then met in person, tried to trigger the presence of this ghost, but all the 'usual tricks didn't work'. Nothing 'ever came of it'._

 _Did Sam Winchester think there was a ghost following you?_

 _She says: he didn't know._

 _I ask if she truly believes there is a ghost following her._

 _She says that it's just 'kid stuff' -_

 _abruptly changes the subject to her twin brother._

* * *

Sam closed the notebook abruptly. "She was being haunted by a ghost, and said I tried to help her?"

"That's what she said, that's why I put it in my notes."

"I realize that," Sam replied with some frustration. "But the ghost…"

"A childhood trauma, perhaps. Something she named The Bent-Neck Lady that appeared to her in Hill House. She said it appeared like a woman with long hair in a nightgown holding her head like this," Dr. Montague grotesquely leaned his head to one side. "Does that ring any bells?"

"Listen," Sam said, kindly. "A long-haired woman ghost with a tilted head is not unusual, really… it's just… it's just common. A very common look. I've heard of something like it many times - maybe even hundreds of times, from different people. But I never met a Nell Crain. I'm sorry."

"Oh… well… maybe… maybe you met her later? She did get married; Arthur Vance was his name. Does the name Eleanor Vance mean anything to you?"

Sam felt like the world had dropped beneath his feet.

"Eleanor Vance," he repeated, his face turning ash-white. He, too, leaned hard, spine against the cinderblock wall of the store. "Eleanor Vance."

"You knew her," the doctor repeated.

"Yeah… I knew her."

* * *

 **Hill House - Now**

* * *

"Well, since the good ol' Doctor is running late," Dean walked with a confident stride towards the front door of the elaborate home. The red and brown bricks, darkened with age, stacked neatly around each gothic window lined in gray. Beneath the overhang where they would have stopped a carriage, a stoney driveway circled through and disappeared in a wide, gravel curve to the gardens and low walls around the side of the house.

The front door was open by a hands' width.

"Oh, he must've gone inside already," Dean muttered, pushing against the door. It groaned and held fast.

"Or not," Sam replied flippantly.

Dean braced his shoulder into the door and heaved, and the wood scraped until it was open wide enough to enter. Dean walked in with a professional, appraising look.

Sam hesitated on the threshold, his stomach turning over.

Dean stopped, giving Sam a questioning look. "Coming?"

"Do you feel that?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean replied. "Feels like a haunted house. Musty and dusty. Why?" His eyes raked suspiciously at the door frame, the entry step, the cobwebs that stretched from door edge to floor. Sam's hand was visibly shaking. "What's up?" Dean repeated, a bit kinder. "What are you thinkin'?"

"I feel… sick," Sam said slowly.

"Sick like you're gonna puke sick?"

"Sick because… the house is…"

"What?"

"Because the house is sick."

"Houses don't get sick."

"Objects get cursed."

"So let's find that object…"

"I think it's the house, Dean."

"The whole house, huh?" Dean admired the high, dark ceiling above them. Before them a huge staircase went up to a landing before splitting to the left and right to continue around the tiled entry, heading for balconies above before leading into dark hallways. "That would take a hell of a lot of work."

"No kidding," Sam said sarcastically, letting out a breath. He stepped over the invisible line, letting out a huff of air and frowning.

"Good?" Dean asked.

Not good. Very bad. _Bad, bad, kill your darlings bad, killing them slowly in their beds, pillows over faces bad…_

Sam felt a nondescript whisper at his shoulder, but there was nothing corporeal there. The voice felt feminine, cat-like. His skin tingled as if someone had kissed his ear.

 _Bad, bad, bad boys._

Sam nodded, lying through his teeth. "Good."

"Let's look around," Dean rested the rifle on one shoulder. "Left or right?"

 _Nowhere. Anywhere but here._

Sam shifted, glancing at multiple exits and entrances available to them. To the right, a long dark hall that clearly led into some dining room, and beyond that, feasibly, a kitchen. He could see part of an open pantry and fridge at the very furthest, darkest end.

On the left, closest to them, there was an entrance into a large parlor with an antique settee and a fireplace big enough for a man to step into.

 _Well,_ thought Sam, _a shorter man, anyway._

There was another hall running parallel to the side of the parlor, with doors into what would be the far wing of the house - he guessed this was where the elusive three story library and the infamous spiral staircase waited.

Beneath, the cellar where they found the body of one of the original owners… who had bricked himself into a wall.

tap, tap, tap.

"Earth to Sammy," Dean said, louder this time. "What's up with you? You okay?"

"I'm good, I'm good. I just think we need to see the whole house. I don't care where we start."

"All right, Mister Cranky. Right it is."

Dean lead the way down the hall towards the ornate dining room. Dark wood chairs and table, left there as if someone was still expected for dinner. A thin, gothic chandelier, looking more like an overgrown amulet made of iron than a lightsource, hung over the center of the table. It moved by barely an inch, the tiniest brush of air from their entrance stirring it to life.

Sam followed Dean's lead. He gave everything a suspicious, critical once-over. In the kitchen, he noted the dumbwaiter in the wall, the secondary pantry with the glass doors.

"Look at that," Dean said quietly. "Got an extra wine cellar down there." He nudged the latch in the floor with his shoe. A small square sat in the corner, where one could lift the handle and descend a ladder below. An old kitchen appliance - god knows what year it was supposed to be - was sitting against the wall, traveling scratch marks indicating it had once sat on top of the trapdoor. Blocking an entrance to a cellar looks troubling in ordinary houses - in a haunted one, even more ominous. Generally, it meant someone knew they needed to keep people out of it. Or worse, trap something inside.

Though light streamed through the windows, a heaviness in the room pressed close. Sam and Dean stood utterly still, and yet a shadow crossed the sunlight squares on the wooden floor.

"Cool, a secret cellar. Noted," Dean barked, turning and abruptly heading out of the pantry. They made their way through the end of the tiny hall that held a fridge and an old china cabinet.

Back into the main hall, and there was an exit to the side of the house, where a stone verandah lay absolutely unused, and a set of servant's stairs up to the second story. They ignored the outer exits, continuing back into the interconnected rooms back down the hall, heading for the main entry again. There was a completely bare room with black X marks spray-painted on the walls.

"What the hell are those for?" joked Dean. "Pirate treasure?"

"Mold I think," Sam replied hesitantly. "They'd go and mark spots on the walls that need repairs. Steven made a brief mention of this in his book; feeling very grown-up when his father asked him to help with a moisture problem."

Dean's eyes roamed over the first X. Then the second, the third, the fourth… "Damn. It's all over. How did people even live here?"

"That's the point, they don't," Sam answered. "People die here."

Dean shuddered and passed through the door into the room closest to the right side of the large stairwell.

"Office," he announced. "Drafting table… wow. Look at this," Dean opened a dresser, the tall kinds with thin drawers to better store maps and floor plans. He unrolled a blueprint, but it was barely visible. Age does not treat paper well in a moldy old home. A corner of the page fell off into Dean's hand like wet fabric.

"Damn," he muttered disappointedly, "I'd love to have a full map of this house."

"So you don't get lost?"

"For a souvenir."

"Hmph," Sam gave him a snort. "Of course you would." He couldn't take his eyes from the open doors facing them both.

On their right, one of the many entries into the conservatory. An indoor greenhouse and art gallery both, he could see the huge potted plants and grotesque statues in writhing, artistically passive poses.

The conservatory ran the length of the backside of the house, with an entrance into this office, open arches on either side of the stairwell wall, and behind the library.

"Hey, wait up," Dean called out gruffly.

Sam blinked. He was no longer in the architect's office.

He was standing in the head of the hallway between the parlor and the music room, the length stretching shadowed before him. He would have had to walk right out of the architect's office, past the bottom of the stairwell. He couldn't imagine walking past those wide stairs without at least thinking about glancing up…

To make sure nothing stood on the landing, watching him below. Like the way birds watch mice, smiling with beaks long, and talons sharp.

He must have walked right by those stairs, noticing nothing.

And how in the world would he have walked through that gaping entry again without remembering the sunlight through the huge windows?

Those stairs wrapped around, went overhead, and connected to an indoor balcony between two huge, gothically arched windows that looked over the driveway above the front door. Whatever Sam had seen from outside - the figure with the long dark hair - that balcony would be where she stood. Why would he have not at least snuck a peak as he walked by? Glancing up, eyes following the horrendous build of the dark, dark wood? The walls that always feel a few feet too long, more than the eye can accept?

 _Why do you walk here, but you don't see with the jelly-thick eyes in your head?_

 _What don't you want to see, huh? Don't wana see us?_

 _Don't want to see us, huh, boy? Because when you see us you wana play with us?_

 _Wana bite?_

This voice drove squealing nails up a blackboard wall, whispered and cajoled, dry with martini breath and violent dreams.

And then another voice, entirely new. Soft and maternal.

 _Come and have a cup of tea, Sam._

 _It's all right._

 _It's just a little tea._

 _It's time, Sam._

 _Sam._

 _SAM!_

"Sam?! I said wait up."

Sam didn't recall any of it. How long would that have taken? Five seconds? Maybe ten, if he moved very slowly, as if walking underwater? Why on earth was he having a memory gap?

"Did you see somethin'?" Dean asked excitedly.

"I… I… no," Sam replied confusedly. "I wasn't even paying attention."

"I don't know what's going on with you, but I need to know you are focusing and you got my back, okay?" Dean asked, trying to push down his frustration.

"Yeah, yeah." Sam nodded wholeheartedly. "Of course."

"Ghosts are like… the easiest job we have. They're pests. We're exterminators. We've fought harder, bigger, worse things."

"You don't have to tell me that." Sam stepped through the door into the music room. Not that there was even anything left there anyway, only peeling wallpaper and the scratches to show where the piano had been dragged away. And a door into the library.

"If we're dealing with something bigger and worse than ghosts," Dean gave him a brief clap on the shoulder, then turned to examine more spray-painted X marks. "I need to know what you're thinkin'. Okay?"

Sam hesitated. "Hear me out, then, okay?"

Dean turned back and faced him, surprise registering on his face. "Yeah, sure. Shoot."

"Ghost hauntings are the easiest job in our resumes. A little iron, burning the bones, getting them to a place for the reaper to do the rest of the job…"

Dean nodded.

"Why does it feel like none of that would work here?" Sam asked slowly.

"We haven't tried anything."

"True. I mean, it feels like the spirits present here are… advanced. Made stronger, somehow."

Dean didn't make fun of him for once. His large, clear eyes were drawn to the doorway to the library instead.

The library, like a mouth, hung open. A jaw unhinged. The front door may seem like it should be a mouth, if a house was like a body - but no, the front door was just a front door. A guard, a gate. Keeping all within.

But the library door invited trespassers into the throat. A spiral iron staircase, twirling like an esophagus to wind up the side of the library wall for three stories, open and exposed to the room. A tall ceiling at the top drifting with cobwebs, so many they looked like gray clouds. A rainy evening inside the library, the dark red walls and empty bookshelves dim.

This time, it was Dean who stood in the center of the library, looking at a dark stain at the foot of the spiral staircase. It was a deep, rusty brown.

"You know," he said quietly, "They would have cleaned up this after that Crain suicide. This… wouldn't… maybe even isn't here." Dean cleared his throat. "We're seeing it, but it ain't really there. Hauntings 101."

Sam regarded the bloodstain. "There were three Crain suicides altogether."

"Which one is that from, then?" Dean asked, pointing to the dry blood. "Who - or what spirit - do you think is messin' with us right now?"

"Olivia Crain. She threw herself off the balcony."

Dean knelt and got a closer look. "This blood only looks a few days old, not a few decades old." He humphed. "Friggin' ghosts and their special effects. Maybe this works on amateurs, Olivia." He gestured wildly to the room as if Olivia listened.

She did, from the top of the balcony.

Gray, dead toes bare flirting with the very edge.

"The House retains memories of each death," Sam recited. "Holding onto them, the way we cling to grief - to our misunderstandings."

Dean straightened. "Another poetry reading from Steven Crain?"

"Yeah. Chapter three."

"How on earth do you remember that shit?"

"I'm smart," Sam replied, smiling.

"I don't suppose Steven will be joining us? He seems like he would offer plenty of insight."

Sam shook his head. "He refused."

"Did you speak to him?"

"Well, no," Sam replied thoughtfully. "I never did. This is all secondhand."

"From who? That quack doctor that never showed up?"

"I guess so."

"Huh," Dean gave his brother a look. "Is it just me or is there something off about all that?"

"No, I agree, definitely," Sam said. His hand briefly went out and touched a few books left on the shelves, the spines rotted away. It felt like damp moss. "He hired us for a job for a house that isn't his, and doesn't show up?"

"Or did he?" Dean whispered suddenly, reaching out and grasping Sam's arm with a painful, vice-like grip. He pressed a finger to his lips, and then pointed up with a single finger.

Sam felt rocks in his stomach as he followed Dean's point, the anticipation of not knowing what he would see more terrorizing than seeing anything itself. Once the source of the fear was visible, it wasn't quite as fearsome anymore. A ghost is only undefeatable if it can't be found.

But Dean wasn't pointing to someone. The balcony was empty.

Sam heard what he heard - scratches and thumps coming from the hallway at the top of the spiral staircase. The curve ended on a small, wrought-iron balcony, and beyond that, there was a stone hallway with a stained-glass window. Somewhere, just beyond the arch, something moved, shuffled with buoyancy- like a large parade balloon, guided by a loosened string, bumping into the walls.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

* * *

...

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed chapter two, my lovelies! Let me know what you think! Love, Pip**


	3. House Memories

**...**

 **Chapter Three - House Memories**

 **...**

* * *

 **The Market - Then**

* * *

"Does the name Eleanor Vance mean anything to you?"

"Eleanor Vance… Eleanor Vance."

"You knew her."

"Yeah… I knew her." Sam blinked. "You're telling me she's _dead."_

"I am. I'm so sorry."

"How did she die?"

"Suicide…"

"I _know,"_ Sam responded in a low, don't-screw-with-me voice. "How?"

"She… I shouldn't say."

"No, you should," Sam demanded firmly, stepping close to the doctor - nearly threatening, and thinking better of it. "Tell me everything."

"She hung herself from the balcony in Hill House. Broke her neck."

 _Bent neck._

Sam said nothing.

"Are you all right?" the Doctor asked, with tentatively measured compassion. "I understand this must be difficult to hear." He paused. "So you met her, like she said."

"I met her a few years ago," Sam stuttered, "She had called me, said a psychic we both knew had told her she should. We met for coffee and she told she… well, not much, just about the bent neck lady. A hallucination she called it, a nightmare spilling over…"

"From her sleep paralysis," finished Dr. Montague. "I know."

"But that's not it," Sam said firmly. "We both know that."

"Well…"

"Don't you believe her?"

"It's not a matter of what I believe. Whatever _she_ believed killed her. Otherwise she would not have retur… you know. She may not have gone to her childhood home and ended her life there." The doctor gave Sam as much a compassionate look as he could muster. "Did anything… _happen_ when you met?"

"I asked if we could…" Sam gave the doctor a suspicious look, as if suddenly realizing that this perfect stranger, though appearing perfectly trustworthy, may be anything but. "I asked if we could try a few things," Sam said, "to coax a possible spirit manifestation…"

"Hm…"

"Nothing worked," Sam added. He felt that a lengthy explanation was not necessary. A doctor of mental health couldn't possibly wrap his mind around searching for the grave of the bent-neck lady, to dig up her bones and burn the ghost away…

Eleanor… or, Nell… she had told him there wasn't a body to dig up. There wasn't a person who had died who would haunt her. There was nothing to burn.

"I couldn't help her," Sam whispered sadly. "In the end, she didn't want it anyway."

"I'm asking for your help now," the Doctor said, his high voice sounding both clinically cold, and warmly emotional. It was impossible to tell if he was distressed, or just very good at passing along someone else's distress. "If you truly have the skills to help people haunted by past traumas… manifesting in corporeal hallucinations…"

"Ghosts," Sam injected. "You can say _ghosts."_

"As you like," the doctor replied uncomfortably. "I would like to pay you a fee upfront to go to Hill House."

"And do what?"

"Search for evidence of the abnormal. Outside of what local police districts may look for. All they see is evidence of self harm… her body has been since removed, the house cleaned by the professional biohazard recovery…"

Sam shuddered visibly. "Okay. Okay."

"Certainly you would be able to… you know."

"Look for something the police wouldn't look for."

"Yes, certainly." He struggled with his pocket, pulling out a check book. "I'll have to meet you there and let you in, I have a spare key Ms. Crain left with me…"

"What about the current owner?"

The Doctor gave him a look of raised, scolding eyebrows, and a frown. "It's the same owners. It never left the family."

"The Crains _kept_ the home? Even after…"

"Yes," the Doctor nodded emphatically. "I assure you, it's all…" he paused, thinking through the next words very carefully. "They don't wish to go to the house themselves. It's too painful. I act on their behalf."

"I understand."

Dr. Montague scribbled 1,000 on the check, and handed it to Sam. "Will this be adequate?"

"I can't accept this."

"You must, please. Hill House is a house not without… scars, or the ability to truly frighten. And not just young, sleep deprived women. Anyone." The Doctor took a deep breath. "The house can frighten anyone - no, not frighten. Profoundly disturb. It's the least I can imagine to compensate for asking someone to do such a thing - especially one like yourself, working under the radar to search for things that others can't." He shook the check. "Take it."

Sam accepted the check with hesitancy, holding it loosely in one hand. "This will be more than enough."

"Why don't we meet there on Saturday. Noon."

"I'll…" Sam hesitated and then corrected himself. "We'll be there."

"We?"

"My brother and I. We work as a team."

"As you like. I'll see you there."

* * *

 **Hill House - Now**

* * *

They could see a shadow reflected in the stained-glass window. If it had been an ordinary window, they may have been able to see what it was - a ghost, a bat, a doctor. But with the panes of crimson, sapphire, and gold, they could only see a piece of darkness separate from the others, shifting over the areas of the glass that bubbled. It was close, but not walking. It wouldn't pass in front of the opening, to catch a fleeting glimpse. It was rocking in place a little, standing. Undulating.

Dean nodded to Sam. "Split up and come at it from different directions?" He whispered.

Sam shook his head vehemently. "Don't go up the iron staircase. It'll put us too close. We need to use the main stairs, come at it from the upstairs hallway."

Dean held out his hands. " _Why?"_

"Trust me," Sam pleaded. "Come on." He turned and walked stiffly out of the library. When the reddish walls passed quickly behind, even stepping into the mold-ridden music room felt like a breath of fresh air. In the hallway, even more so.

Now they stood at the foot of the stairs, layered with dust, huge dead vines. The plants in the conservatory, left unattended and without their native habitat or regular care, had taken over. The jungle-like ruin looked out of place, a juxtaposition of what an old, abandoned manor should house - maybe bird's nests, graffiti, maybe even vampires looking for a place to live out of the sunlight where no one would stop for a visit. But there was nothing like that, only ivy and climbing berry vines gone wild, no signs of pranking teens, no monsters needing a base of operations.

 _Silence lay steadily at Hill House…_

"They really shouldn't have left all those plants indoors," Dean joked.

 _Silence lay steadily across your throat._

Dean went up the stairs, Sam right beside him, thrilled and ready.

 _Silence lay in your heart when I stop it with my fingers._

The house was halved by a second-floor landing, for the two staircases to split and go around the entry into the right or left wing. Technically, it was the third floor that acted as a second floor, full of bedrooms, bathrooms. A large hallway on either side that led to servant's stairs to the kitchen, or to the stone hallway holding the stained glass window behind the spiral staircase head.

Dean took the left staircase, where a huge grandfather clock stood in the corner of the landing.

Sam followed.

He heard one of the cogs in the clock squeak.

 _Turn around, turn around, turn around and see…_

Sam pulled his iron-bladed knife from his jacket inner pocket, and looked over his shoulder.

Nothing at the clock, but… it look like it had been wound recently.

The second hand began to tick down the face of the clock.

 _Tick, tick, tick, tick…_

"Check it out," Sam reached the top of the stairs. "The clock's working."

Dean looked back down. "It shouldn't."

"I know that."

They went into the hall and looked into the abandoned rooms. Completely empty, unlivable. Even the Crains didn't use these rooms, live in there. There were still a few cardboard boxes left. Seven boxes altogether, all pushed in a frowning shape on the floor. Arranged so that when one entered, they stood inside that half-circle.

Sam stood there only a moment, and felt a breath of relief in his lungs, but it was over quickly enough. He knew on the other side of the wall, there was nothing but the open emptiness of the library. And yet he heard tapping on the other side, where nothing but empty air, and a long fall, would await.

The next room, also empty. Black X marks scattered - seven altogether. So many of them, the unpapered walls light brown, sprinkled with the floral growths of mold, like dandelions blooming diseased and rotten in dry earth.

They went into the hallway that ran along the left side of the house, aiming for a red door nestled at the very end. There was nothing standing beside the stained glass window on the left, nor the entrance to the top of the spiral staircase on the right. While anything could have slipped onto the balcony, tracing their own path through the house ten feet behind them, it was clear that whatever had been here was now gone.

A brief appearance by the supernatural, now tucked away, the way dreams and children are put to bed. Sometimes stronger emotions must be present for the ghosts to fully manifest, Sam knew that much.

It wouldn't be unusual for them to wait till nightfall, and then something would appear. He'd seen it happen more often when a house was occupied - a young mother and child, perhaps, begging for help and offering them couches to stay on so that they could be present in the night when spirits and demons were most active. Sometimes Dean and himself even made the mistake of assuming they were not telling the truth until furniture flew across a room.

But those were their younger - more innocent years. They rarely made those mistakes now. And there was no mistaking Hill House for something old and creepy but not haunted. It was _definitely_ haunted, by things worse than perhaps he imagined.

Dean went to the two doors, hesitated before looking out onto the balcony, and his face went an unnatural shade of gray.

Sam felt an unusual fear twist his belly.

This was elementary work for them. What could possibly disturb _Dean?_

"Sam," Dean whispered, but no sound came out. He only mouthed his name.

Sam went up to the doorframe, looking over Dean's shoulder.

Dean pointed a slightly shaking finger down to the library floor.

From here, the library was even more ominous, though usually a height advantage would provide comfort in any other situation. The red walls were sullen, pouting in their bloody decay. The bookshelves half empty, a few boxes left behind damp and pushed against the walls.

The balcony creaked a little beneath their feet, the iron squeak giving a little with malleable age. Below the staircase spiraled like a strand of DNA.

Standing over the bloodspot they were investigating on the floor below was the tallest ghost Sam had ever seen. He had seen big monsters in his day, sure. Even golems were intimidating until the truth of their creation was revealed.

This ghost appeared to be at least seven feet tall, perhaps seven and a half. What was worse, he wore a bowler hat, and carried a cane, his long black trenchcoat hiding his proportions so it was impossible to tell why he appeared so unbelievably long.

The man-ghost seemed to hover in place over the bloodstain of Olivia Crain.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

His cane went across the floor in searching, questioning taps. With each tap, his body seemed to float a little closer to the door of the music room.

Sam realized the man's feet didn't touch the ground - hovered there, four or five inches from the floor.

The man moved with despicable silence, hostility radiating from his presence in vibrations of fear pummeling Sam's chest over and over again. The floating figure, not bobbing and weaving like a floating fishing lure, but steady - like a machine on an invisible track - departed from the library room.

 _Tap, tap, tap._

They could hear his cane in the music room, then the hallway. And then nothing.

"Why didn't you shoot the thing," Sam whispered, barely able to breathe.

"I don't know," Dean admitted. His hands were white over his gun. "I know this sounds crazy, but…"

"But what?"

"All I wanted," Dean admitted, "Was for that thing to not see me."

"Yeah," Sam agreed quietly.

"I didn't want to move. I didn't want to aim and fire." Dean shook his head, as if there were cobwebs to clear. "I didn't want that thing to know I was up here, looking down at him."

"Why was he so tall?"

"Tall? No," Dean shivered. "He wasn't _tall._ He was stretched."

Sam shivered.

"What made him stretch like that," Dean mumbled more to himself than Sam, backing out of the balcony, bumping into Sam on his way in. Once the shadow of the hall crossed overhead, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Ya think he died from being tortured on a rack in a dungeon? Like an old school Spanish inquisition?"

"A dungeon here? No."

"I was joking," Dean sighed. "Anything in that book of yours say anything about what this ghost could be? Don't tell me that's old Hugh Crain."

"The only one I can think of is the one Steven mentioned; the body found walled up in the basement. He said the body was walled up alive, with his cane beside him. I don't remember anything about it being seven feet tall or wearing a hat like that. The only similarity is the cane."

"Well that's gotta be it, then. Where do you suppose that body ended up?"

"Police custody, obviously."

"So where do you think he went after the autopsy?"

"That's a good question. He wouldn't have been delivered back here. He would have been cremated or turned over to family."

"Any family left from _that_ line?"

"I'd have to do some research." Sam took a deep, shaky breath. He realized Dean was shuddering too. "You okay?"

"I haven't been that effing scared since…" Dean shook his head. "Well, screw that, it doesn't matter. I'm sure that thing will pop back up. Next time I hope it's a little closer. I wouldn't mind facing it at the end of a nice, long hallway. It will be right in my sights." He looked at the rifle in his hands. "Don't let me hesitate again."

"Are you talking to the gun, or to me?" Sam smirked.

"You, you dork," Dean replied. He went to the red door, tried the old fashioned knob, a deep brass carved to look like a lion's head. He stopped, and jerked his hand back.

"What?" Sam asked.

"The knob was too cold," Dean said quietly. "Felt like I just grabbed dry ice with my bare hand."

"But," Sam replied in a horrified whisper, "It's too hot for that."

Dean felt something like lava cascading down his spine. He struggled to pull an EMF meter from his pocket, nearly crushing it against the door frame. The lights struggled, flickering, and disappeared entirely.

"This should be working," Dean whispered to himself. "Why isn't this working?"

Sam breathed out, and a plume of white fog was visible. "It's cold enough in the _air_. Definite spirit presence… except…" He tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his plaid, long sleeved shirt. "It's hot. _Really_ hot."

"Not according to this," Dean tucked the EMF back into his pocket angrily. He, too, had foggy breath in the rapidly dropping temperature. Breath visible, except his skin was tingling with heat as if he were getting sunburnt, sweat beginning to pool in his underarms and waistband. "This is something _else."_

"Something other than spirits?"

"I just mean… somethin' else entirely. Don't you feel that?" Dean's eyes were so wide, they looked like doll's eyes. "Come on, Sammy. Do you _feel_ that?"

Sam nodded, his mouth working over his tongue with nervousness. "It feels like…"

"Hell," Dean finished. "It feels like Hell."

...

* * *

...

* * *

 _Thank you so much for joining me on this little scary adventure! Please leave me a review :)_

 _Love,_

 _Pip_


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